I've found my home

and on a happier note

Methinks that at least two of my readers can handle the HUGE amount of Spanish in this song. The rest of you (hang on - isn't two both of my readers?) will just have to hum along:

ten thousand spoons

It's Tuesday. The alarm goes off and I'm convinced it's Tuesday. I didn't sleep last night. We watched tele until late (11pm is late for me on a school night) and, although I was tired, I didn't fall asleep. I remember looking at the clock as it ticked over to 1:30am. When Snow Patrol blasted from the alarm at 6:15am, I had had less than five hours sleep. And it was Tuesday. My body felt like Tuesday, my mind thought it was Tuesday, I was prepared for Tuesday.

It is W*dn*sd*y.

How the hell did that happen? Here am I, stuck in the middle of what I thought was going to be the longest week and it is already W*dn*sd*y - BRILLIANT! And the rest of the week is already mapped out. I already knew that when I got to W*dn*sd*y that it was going to be a fast week. But I thought it was Tuesday. I thought I'd never get to W*dn*sd*y. Yet, here I am.

I'm starting to love this week.

I know what confused me - I didn't get my usual Tuesday email from the grauniad (that's the guardian to those who don't understand my weird sense of spelling - it's an in-joke). Why the hell didn't I get my email from the grauniad? It appears there was an earthquake in Ingerland! Yep, 5.8 on the Richter scale! It appears that coffee cups were dislodged, coats were knocked to the floor, and some people were woken up (although, others were still awake)!

Let me just think this through...I move to a city that is built on a fault line. I live in a city where we practice earthquake drill once a month. I live in a city that has marked out areas next to every building over three floors (and some that are only one floor) high for people t assemble at in the event of an earthquake. I've lived here for over two and a half years and still, not experienced an earthquake.

It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife!

enjoy the silence

I tolerate fools badly. Life can be simple if you learn to live within your limitations - as the great philosopher, Dirt Harry, was want to quote: "a man's gotta know his limitations". And I have no problems with limitations, hell. I expect and accept them. I am a teacher, every day, every hour, I am faced with people (students) who have limitations. It's my job to get them to realise their full potential, to reach the level of their limitations and then, if I'm a good teacher, push at those boundaries. There is nothing more satisfying than a cold beer on a hot day a student achieving their full potential. And, in the same way, there is nothing more frustrating than a warm beer on a hot day a student who just gives up. But, they're kids and tomorrow is another day, or (even better) the next hour is a new lesson, a clean slate.

I like working with kids, they have the memory span of old people and don't smell as funny. It's people between the ages of 18 and 60 that I have difficulty with. I tolerate fools badly.

Don't get me wrong, I like the majority of adults, the majority of adults are wonderful (there are times when I sound so patronising). But, within the odd twenty adults, there is always one person who is guaranteed to make me stop and ask "wtf". There is always one person who just doesn't really get how the world is supposed to work. There is always one person who manages to open their mouth and let the first thought fall out of it. Again, not every member of this 5% of the population irritates me. After careful consideration, a follow-up question, a short discussion, I can normally come to terms with the person and let them pass merrily on their way. I can be quite nice that way (ooo, get you). But there is always one person, in these twenty people, who is a fool (and that is me being my politest) - and I tolerate fools badly.

What gets me is that this 0.25% of the population is always in a position of responsibility (or, if you prefer, power - because with great responsibility comes power). As I once said to Alan, as I have mentioned twice on here, and as I have constantly repeated: people are promoted to their level of incompetence. You know the story: a person is good at their job so they get promoted; they're good at that, they get promoted; they are good at that, they get promoted; suddenly they find themselves out of their depth and they drown. But, like the mad-flailing-panicking-drowner they have a tendency to pull everyone nearby under the water with them. Do you get that I have a problem with authority? Actually, I have a problem with authority that doesn't recognise it's own incompetence.

I'm good at my job. I am really good at my job. I am brilliant at my job. I know this for a fact. The problem is, everyone knows I am good at my job  - and their response to this is to offer me a job that is higher up the ladder. Why? Why if I'm good at this would I be good at something else? The fact is, I am. But I know I'm not as good at that job as I am at this. I know who I am, I am satisfied with what I am, I'm staying here thank you. But I seem to, on days like this, to be surrounded by people who don't know their limitations. They accept the job above. They accept the next job above that. And suddenly they have reached their level of incompetence.

Just once I wish that "the powers that be" would pause and ask. Just once I wish that instead of opening their mouths tptb would understand that, as line-managers, it might be a good idea to go down the line with their ideas. Just once I wish that tptb would not think it is a good idea to skip a level and launch an idea a level below.

Today I walked into a classroom where, instead of teaching the lesson I had prepared, I had to deal with a classroom in uproar. It appears that the students have to list a "quality they possess" and a "limitation they should control" every day. Every day, until the end of the academic year. That's (approximately) 59 (very approximately) "qualities" and "limitations". This exercise will bring them "inner peace". Try it. Try it now. Come up with 10 qualities you possess. Then try for 20. The beautiful, wonderful, creative, intelligent, caring, sexy, funny, passionate, Mexican, tall Maria managed to come up with two qualities for me - funny and cute. Goodness knows how an eleven year old child is going to come up with 59 (approximately) qualities. PLUS, at the end of the exercise they have to write a 10 paragraph essay on "Peace".

I'm speechless. I wish that those above me were also. I wish that they had floated this idea out first. Just so that I could have shot it down and then stomped on its dead body like a manic Irish dancer. I just wish they had said the idea out loud first and then, then they could have just "enjoyed the silence".

Not the best day at work.

yes we can

I wear my politics and my beliefs on my sleeve. I am a yoghurt-eating-sandal-wearing-weak-livered-grauniad-reading-liberal. Oh yes I am. And I'm proud about it...but not proud enough to argue about it because if you have a different opinion then I agree with your opinion and you are probably right - or at least I will die in defending your right to say that I'm wrong. If that's alright with you.

Had a bit of a mishap at school this week. I had asked the children to write about a person they admire. Not just write about the person but why they admire them. Really admire them. Tell me about the person, convince me that they are worthy of my admiration. And, bless their little cotton socks, some of them came through with some great arguments. I found myself interested in a cast member of High School The Musical, agreeing that Bono wasn't really conceited, and realising that Shakira was an honest citizen (her hips don't lie). And then, in amongst the Mozarts, the Da Vincis, the J.K Rowlings, I was presented with an Adolf Hitler. At first my liberal tendencies went with a "let it go", this was a writing exercise, the student is allowed to have his own opinion - hell, the argument might have been that Hitler was funnier than Chaplin, in which case I would have been sold. But the argument went:

"I know Hitler killed the jewish, the blacks, the homosexuals and he was a very bad man but I'm sure he did something good - so I admire him."

Not really the best argument to present.

Next Monday the Sixth Grade is presenting the school assembly. We will be doing a short recap of the life of César Estrada Chávez - the man who took as his slogan "Si se puede", "Yes we can". To finish the assembly off we will also perform a song by Will.I.Am (your name is William and you're a dick!). Fortunately it is not a Black Eyed Peas song (anyone for "My Humps"?) but is instead a speech by Barack Obama put to music.

I realise that I shouldn't put my politics directly in your face - because I'm a liberal - but this is beautiful.

Shame the Sixth Grade will murder it. Ah well, I've got a week to do it justice.

Oh, and the Hitler supporter? He'll have a leading role in the story of Chávez - gotta lurve your non-violent activists!

and the oscar goes to...

It's raining. Raining.

It's cold. Cold.

It's Sunday and it's raining and cold. Yesterday I worked most of the day, writing exams and preparing an assembly. Today I don't have to do anything. Today I am not getting out of my pyjamas. Actually, that's wrong.

I got dressed, went to the supermarket, bought three tons of junk food, a huge bread roll, three different cheeses, a bottle of red wine, came home, turned on the gas fire, changed back into my pyjamas and am preparing to settle down in front of the television.

Santos play Team America (I know, it sounds like a film about puppets but Team America are the team to beat in Mexico) and it is the Oscars. Maria and I will fight over the remote for a bit while I try to watch the end of the match and she wants to watch the dresses on the red carpet. But at 3:45pm the tele will be fixed on the red carpet and then the ceremony itself.

I have my favourites: loved Michael Clayton; winced through the gloriousness of  No Country for Old Men; adored Juno. Am hoping that Atonement wins nothing. Am looking forward to Jon Stewart presenting.

If you want me, I'll be that lump on the sofa with bread crumbs surrounding it. It's cold, it's raining and I'm curling up in front of the tele and not moving.

vantage point

Do not buy a large soda before entering the cinema if you are going to see this film! The thing I love about America is that they honestly believe that someone can actually consume a large drink during a film. Hell, they are so convinced about the fact that if, you have the audacity to buy one, they will even re-fill the bastard! We ordered "combo 2" which meant a large popcorn and large drinks - which was cheaper than buying a large popcorn and two medium drinks, go figure! Unfortunately the person I was with scoffed most of the popcorn and so I didn't have much to soak up the diet coke I was attempting to swim in. This was a bad plan because there is no way you can nip out of the cinema for a toilet visit in the middle of this film! You know how in most films there is a moment when you can grab three minutes for a quick dash? There isn't in this!

Vantage Point is a jigsaw puzzle of a film. They show the first 23 minutes of the film six different times (although I get the feeling that each time doesn't actually last 23 minutes), from six different points of view. The first time it happens you think "OK". The second and third time you start to feel a bit restless but by the fifth and sixth time you actually want more! Each time they replay the story it is told from another point of view, another "vantage point" and slowly the pieces of the puzzle click together. You can't leave your seat because you will miss something important. And then, suddenly, once the story is set up, it is a non-stop roller-coaster ride to the end - thirty minutes of mayhem, car crashes, bullets flying, and the person sat next to me squealing with delight. It is just jolly good fun! Probably more fun without a full bladder but, even under those circumstances, exceptionally enjoyable.

Want a good night out? Go see Vantage Point!

[oddly enough there was a trailer for a certain film as a "coming soon" which we found strange considering that it had already gone straight to DVD - ah well, maybe someone had read my blog and realised that it was so bad it was good]

fear

There is nothing to fear except fear itself - bollocks. There are loads of things to fear: dentists and their desire to drill; spiders and their desire to exist; cockroaches and their ability to re-form and move quicker just after you have smacked them with a slipper; a strange lump in your testicles; your boss asking for a meeting at a specific time because talking to you in the corridor isn't appropriate; failure.

Failure rates pretty high on my list of fears. I don't like to fail. I don't like things to go wrong. Me, I'm a great believer in Homer Simpson's philosophies:

1) If a job's too hard then don't do it
and
b) If at first you don't succeed - give up

I passed my driving test on my first attempt. To some of my readers that will not seem like a great achievement - even if I throw in the line that I only took two lessons: an introductory lesson from BSM and an hour's lesson from a friend-of-a-friend before the test. In England (Britain?) the rules state that everyone fails their test the first time (it's an unwritten rule). Driving Test Examiners fail you on the first attempt, everyone knows that. The way it works in England is that there are too many cars on the road so the feeling is, don't let anyone pass their test that'll keep the roads clear.

But I passed my driving test the first time I took it - the exception that proves the rule!

And that was that. Passed my test in 1978 at the age of 17 which gives me free reign to think that I am a good driver. No-one can criticise my driving! Hell, I'm such a good driver that I even taught my daughter to drive and she passed on the first second attempt (because, you see, even though I am the most excellentest driver and the bestest ever teacher, everyone fails on their first attempt!)

We have a new car truck. We are having to insure it - not just for driving in Mexico but also in the USA. As far as the Mexican insurance is concerned, they are quite happy for me to pootle around with my British driving licence - hell, as far as I can work out (a bit like I'm the only qualified teacher in my school) the majority of drivers in Mexico haven't passed their test. This isn't a problem because 66.6% of all Mexican cars aren't insured, so the insurance companies are quite happy that someone wants to give them money. Basically, you've got some sort of licence and that'll do. Not so the Americans.

For some weird reason (ok, it's not that weird) as part of our American insurance they would rather I had a Mexican driving licence than an English driving licence. Which means that I have to get a Mexican driving licence.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I have to take a Mexican driving test to get my licence. I am very scared. The test has two parts - a driving part and a written part. I'm fairly confident that I can pass the driving part. Actually "fairly" might be an over-statement. I don't drive like a Mexican, I drive like an Englishman. This means that the whole driving part of the test might be spent sat at a "four-way-alto" as I let everyone through. And god-only-knows what will happen if I have to go round a round-a-bout. So, if I'm not bricking it enough about the driving part of the test there is the written bit. Now, because this is Mexico, you can buy the written bit of the test (with all the answers) for 100 pesos ($10 or 7.50 of your English Pounds Sterling). So, all I've got to do is learn the answers.

Learn the answers and pass the driving part.

Can you see I'm going to fuck this up?

There's something worse. Maria (I love her, I adore her, she's wonderful) is the.single.worst.passenger.ever. Maria is fantastic, Maria is wonderful, Maria is my everything. I cannot think of a single solitary thing I would ever want to do in the rest of my life without her - EXCEPT drive with her sat in the passenger seat. Now, Maria, because she is wonderful, will tell you that I can drive, that she is happy with me driving, that she loves my driving, that I'm sexy when I drive, that I am the single bestest driver she has ever had the pleasure (and it is such a pleasure) to travel with. Unfortunately, Maria will say this when we are sat/stood/leaning anywhere EXCEPT in a car. She will deny it but in a car I can do nothing right. She breathes through her teeth, she makes weird squeaky noises, she comments on everything I do (or, as it is pointed out to me through clenched teeth, everything I don't do). At this moment, she is convinced that I will pass my test easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy but, at this moment, we aren't sat in a car!

I'm going to fail.

I'm going to fail my test.

I'm going to fail my test and the next time I drive and she says something I won't be able to say that I've been driving for thirty years and I don't need her to tell me what I'm doing wrong because...because I failed my test!

I'm thinking of pulling a sickie.

no country for old men

I like the Coen brothers. I like their films. They really work for me.

No Country For Old Men is brilliant.

I've already had one argument about it. The other person was upset about there not being an ending to several characters' stories. As I have said to them, the title is  "No Country For Old Men", the story has a beginning, a middle and an end for the titular character - the fact that you get so many "side-stories" is a bonus! Shut up and enjoy the film.

What you get is a wonderful performance from Tommy Lee Jones as a sheriff caught in a world that is racing past him - this is no country for old men. He is excellent and the final scene, where he tells of the dream he had about his father, brought tears to my eyes. Just his story would be enough. But, to demonstrate the changing world that he lives in the film introduces the meanest, nastiest, most horriblest cold-blooded killer in (my) film history. I thought that the Italian soldier in "Pan's Labyrinth" would never be topped - Anton Chigurh is the man of my nightmares. I'll accept that stone-cold-killers exist but I have always hoped that I would never exist in their circle. The scene in the gas (petrol) station will haunt me for years.

Forget horror films - this is the man that will keep you awake at night. No silly mask, no silly gimmick (apart from the "air gun"), just a raw, unstoppable killing machine.  Oh, and the film is just excellent. Gotta lurve the Coen Brothers!

atonement

Atonement - Ian McEwan

Read it.

That's my review - read it. Don't watch the film (the film is awful), read the book. The book is wonderful. I normally don't like to recommend books outright because I know that my taste might not be yours. But, read it.

Oh, and if you don't like it - there's something wrong with you!

Feel free to comment :^)

so, I didn't expect that

I moan - yes I do! I moan about the cold. I know, it's not right to moan about the cold when it is 20 degrees C in the middle of February but I do. You see it isn't 20 degrees at night. Once the sun sets (damn quickly, no twilight here) the temperature drops - actually, the temperature plummets. And, I've said it before, but it is worth repeating, Mexico just isn't built for cold weather. The minute the temperature drops there is no escape from the cold, no relief. There is no stepping into a warm house that keeps out the cold, my flat is actually colder than it is outside. Last weekend we had the first BBQ of the year, a "carne asada". It was warm enough to sit outside, drink, eat and be merry. Oh how we chuckled about the English, sat at home, shivering when they went outside.

And then, mid-week, the temperature collapsed.

Wednesday was cold, very cold. By the time I got home from work I had back-ache. Why did I have back-ache? Because my core body temperature had dropped so far that I was hunched over. There was nothing to do except crawl into the shower and try to re-boot. Once I had thawed out enough, I climbed into bed (fully dressed, wearing a hat), pulled the sheets over me and tried to stay warm.

Thursday morning I woke up (as you do). Elsewhere you might have been told about my morning routine - the alarm goes off, we say "hello", I slid out of bed, pull on a hoody and thick trackie-bottoms, light the gas fire, wander outside for the first cigarette of the day, back inside for another kiss and cuddle, crawl out of bed for a shower. Thursday I awoke to Snow Patrol on the CD player, kissed Maria, told her how much I loved her, how great my life was, pulled on a Spider-Man hoody, thick trackie-bottoms, lit the fire, put on  my leather jacket, went outside onto the balcony, lit my first cigarette of the day, and looked at the new truck parked on the other side of the street.

Look carefully at the picture. Our truck is green. The roof of our truck is green! Except, in the picture it is white. Why is it white? FROST!! Yep, Wednesday night the temperature dropped below freezing and the car was frosted over. The windscreen was frozen. This is a phenomenon (ba-bah-da-badda) that Maria has never encountered before - a frozen windscreen. It was a phenomenon that I never expected to encounter again. There I was, for the first time in my life, sat in a car without a can of anti-freeze. Fortunately I had a credit card!

Priceless!!